Provenca 

J 

of 

Ezra  Pound 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


PROVEN9A 


PRO VENCA 


POEMS 

SELECTED    FROM    PERSONAE,    EXULTATIONS,    AND 
CANZONIERE 


OF 


EZRA    POUND 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND    COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1910, 
BY  EZRA  POUND 


THE  UNIVERSITY   PRESS,   CAMBRIDGE,    U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 

PERSONAE 

LA   FRAISNE  5 

CINO  7 

NA    AUDIART  9 

VILLON AUD   FOR  THIS  YULE  II 
A   VILLONAUD,   BALLAD   OF  THE   GIBBET          12 

MESMERISM  14 

FAMAM   LIBROSQUE   CANO  IS 

IN  TEMPORE   SENECTUTIS  17 

CAMARADERIE  1 8 

FOR   E.    McC.  19 

BALLAD    FOR   GLOOM  2O 

AT   THE    HEART   O?   ME  21 

THE   TREE  22 

AN  IDYL   FOR   GLAUCUS  22 

MARVOIL  26 

IN  THE    OLD   AGE   OF  THE  SOUL  28 
REVOLT      AGAINST      THE      CREPUSCULAR 

SPIRIT   IN   MODERN   POETRY  28 

AND  THUS    IN   NINEVEH  30 

THE   WHITE    STAG  31 

PICCADILLY  31 

EXULTATIONS 

NIGHT   LITANY  37 

SESTINA:    ALTAFORTE  39 

BALLAD    OF   THE   GOODLY   FERE  41 

PORTRAIT  43 

THE  EYES  43 

NILS  LYKKE  44 

"FAIR  HELENA"  BY  RACKHAM  45 

GREEK  EPIGRAM  45 

HISTRION  46 

PARACELSUS  IN  EXCELSIS  46 

A  SONG  OF  THE  VIRGIN  MOTHER  47 


EXULTATIONS,  continued 

SONG 

PLANH   FOR  THE   YOUNG  ENGLISH   KING 

ALBA  INNOMINATA 

LAUDANTES 

PLANH 
CANZONIERE 

OCTAVE 

SONNET  IN  TENZONE 

SONNET 

CANZON:  THE  YEARLY  SLAIN 

CANZON:  THE  SPEAR 

CANZON 

CANZON:  OF  INCENSE 

CANZONE :   OF   ANGELS 

SONNET:  CHI  E  QUESTA? 

OF   GRACE 

CANZON:  THE  VISION 

TO  OUR  LADY  OF  VICARIOUS  ATONEMENT 

EPILOGUE 

NOTES 


PERSONAE 


"Make-strong  old  dreams  lest  this  our  world  Lose  heart" 


TO  MARY  MOORE 


LA  FRAISNE1 

SCENE  :  The  Ash  Wood  of  Malvern. 

FOR  I  was  a  gaunt,  grave  councillor 
Being  in  all  things  wise,  and  very  old, 
But  I  have  put  aside  this  folly  and  the  cold 
That  old  age  weareth  for  a  cloak. 

I  was  quite  strong  —  at  least  they  said  so  — 
The  young  men  at  the  sword-play; 
But  I  have  put  aside  this  folly,  being  gay 
In  another  fashion  that  more  suiteth  me. 

I  have  curled  mid  the  boles  of  the  ash  wood, 
I  have  hidden  my  face  where  the  oak 
Spread  his  leaves  over  me,  and  the  yoke 
Of  the  old  ways  of  men  have  I  cast  aside. 

By  the  still  pool  of  Mar-nan-otha 
Have  I  found  me  a  bride 
That  was  a  dog-wood  tree  some  syne. 
She  hath  called  me  from  mine  old  ways, 
She  hath  hushed  my  rancour  of  council, 
Bidding  me  praise 

Naught  but  the  wind  that  flutters  in  the  leaves. 

She  hath  drawn  me  from  mine  old  ways, 

Till  men  say  that  I  am  mad; 

But  I  have  seen  the  sorrow  of  men,  and  am  glad, 

For  I  know  that  the  wailing  and  bitterness  are  a  folly. 

And  I  ?  I  have  put  aside  all  folly  and  all  grief. 

1  Prefatory  note  at  end  of  the  volume. 


LaFraisnel  wrapped  my  tears  in  an  ellum  leaf 
And  left  them  under  a  stone, 
And  now  men  call  me  mad  because  I  have  thrown 
All  folly  from  me,  putting  it  aside 
To  leave  the  old  barren  ways  of  men, 
Because  my  bride 
Is  a  pool  of  the  wood,  and 
Though  all  men  say  that  I  am  mad 
It  is  only  that  I  am  glad, 

Very  glad,  for  my  bride  hath  toward  me  a  great  love 
Which  is  sweeter  than  the  love  of  women 
That  plague  and  burn  and  drive  one  away. 

Aie-e !    'T  is  true  that  I  am  gay, 

Quite  gay,  for  I  have  her  alone  here 
And  no  man  troubleth  us. 

Once  when  I  was  among  the  young  men  .... 
And  they  said  I  was  quite  strong,  among  the  young 

men. 

Once  there  was  a  woman  .... 
....  but  I  forget  ....  she  was  .... 
....  I  hope  she  will  not  come  again. 

....  I  do  not  remember  .... 
I  think  she  hurt  me  once,  but  .... 
That  was  very  long  ago. 

I  do  not  like  to  remember  things  any  more. 

I  like  one  little  band  of  winds  that  blow 
In  the  ash  trees  here: 
For  we  are  quite  alone 
Here  amid  the  ash  trees. 
6 


CINO 

ITALIAN  CAMPAGNA   1309,  THE  OPEN-ROAD 

AH !  I  have  sung  women  in  three  cities, 


B' 


But  it  is  all  the  same; 
And  I  will  sing  of  the  sun. 

Lips,  words,  and  you  snare  them, 

Dreams,  words,  and  they  are  as  jewels, 

Strange  spells  of  old  deity, 

Ravens,  nights,  allurement: 

And  they  are  not; 

Having  become  the  souls  of  song. 

Eyes,  dreams,  lips,  and  the  night  goes. 

Being  upon  the  road  once  more, 

They  are  not. 

Forgetful  in  their  towers  of  our  tuneing 

Once  for  Wind-runeing 

They  dream  us-toward  and 

Sighing,  say,  "  Would  Cino, 

Passionate  Cino,  of  the  wrinkling  eyes, 

Gay  Cino,  of  quick  laughter, 

Cino,  of  the  dare,  the  jibe, 

Frail  Cino,  strongest  of  his  tribe 

That  tramp  old  ways  beneath  the  sun -light, 

Would  Cino  of  the  Luth  were  here!" 

Once,  twice,  a  year  — 
Vaguely  thus  word  they: 

"Cino?"    "Oh,  eh,  Cino  Polnesi 

The  singer  is 't  you  mean?" 

"Ah  yes,  passed  once  our  way, 

A  saucy  fellow,  but  .... 
7 


Cino  (Oh,  they  are  all  one,  these  vagabonds), 

Peste !  't  is  his  own  songs  ? 
Or  some  other's  that  he  sings? 
But  you,  My  Lord,  how  with  your  city? 

But  you  "My  Lord,"  God's  pity! 

And  all  I  knew  were  out,  My  Lord,  you 

Were  Lack-land  Cino,  e'en  as  I  am, 

0  Sinistro. 

1  have  sung  women  in  three  cities. 
But  it  is  all  one. 

I  will  sing  of  the  sun. 

....  eh?  ....  they  mostly  had  grey  eyes, 

But  it  is  all  one,  I  will  sing  of  the  sun. 

"Tollo  Phoibee,  old  tin  pan,  you 
Glory  to  Zeus'  aegis-day, 
Shield  o'  steel-blue,  th'  heaven  o'er  us 
Hath  for  boss  thy  lustre  gay ! 

Tollo  Phoibee,  to  our  way-fare 
Make  thy  laugh  our  wander-lied; 
Bid  thy  'fulgence  bear  away  care. 
Cloud  and  rain -tears  pass  they  fleet  I 

Seeking  e'er  the  new-laid  rast-way 
To  the  gardens  of  the  sun 

I  have  sung  women  in  three  cities 
But  it  is  all  one. 

I  will  sing  of  the  white  birds 
In  the  blue  waters  of  heaven, 
The  clouds  that  are  spray  to  its  sea. 
8 


NA  AUDIART 

"QUE  BE-M  VOLS  MAL" 

Any  one  who  has  read  anything  of  the  troubadours  knows 
well  the  tale  of  Bertran  of  Born  and  My  Lady  Maent  of  Mon- 
taignac,  and  knows  also  the  song  he  made  when  she  would  none 


her  love-lit  glance,  of  Aelis  her  speech  free-running,  of  the  Vicomp- 
tess  of  Chales  her  throat  and  her  two  hands,  at  Roacoart  of 
Anhes  her  hair  golden  as  Iseult's ;  and  even  in  this  fashion  of  Lady 
Audiart,  "  although  she  would  that  ill  come  unto  him"  he  sought 
and  praised  the  lineaments  of  the  torse.  And  all  this  to  make 
"  Una  dompna  soiseubuda  "  a  borrowed  lady  or,  as  the  Italians 
translated  it,  "  Una  donna  ideale." 

THOUGH  thou  well  dost  wish  me  ill," 
Audiart,  Audiart, 
Where  thy  bodice  laces  start 
As  ivy  fingers  clutching  through 
Its  crevices, 

Audiart,  Audiart, 
Stately,  tall  and  lovely  tender 
Who  shall  render, 

Audiart,  Audiart, 
Praises  meet  unto  thy  fashion? 
Here  a  word  kiss ! 

Pass  I  on 

Unto  Lady  "Miels-de-Ben," 
Having  praised  thy  girdle's  scope, 
How  the  stays  ply  back  from  it; 
I  breathe  no  hope 
That  thou  shouldst  .... 

Nay,  no  whit 

Bespeak  thyself  for  anything. 
Just  a  word  in  thy  praise,  girl, 
Just  for  the  swirl 

9 


Na  Thy  satins  make  upon  the  stair, 

Audiart     > Cause  never  a  flaw  was  there 

Where  thy  torse  and  limbs  are  met: 
Though  thou  hate  me,  read  it  set 
In  rose  and  gold.1 

\       Or  when  the  minstrel,  tale  half  told, 
Shall  burst  to  lilting  at  the  phrase 

"Audiart,  Audiart" 


Bertrans,  master  of  his  lays, 

Bertrans  of  Aultaforte  thy  praise 

Sets  forth,  and  though  thou  hate  me  well, 

Yea,  though  thou  wish  me  ill, 

Audiart,  Audiart 
Thy  loveliness  is  here  writ  till, 

Audiart, 

Oh,  till  thou  come  again.2 
And  being  bent  and  wrinkled,  in  a  form 
That  hath  no  perfect  limning,  when  the  warm 
Youth  dew  is  cold 
Upon  thy  hands,  and  thy  old  soul, 
Scorning  a  new,  wry'd  casement, 
Churlish  at  seemed  misplacement, 
Finds  the  earth  as  bitter 
As  now  seems  it  sweet, 
Being  so  young  and  fair 
As  then  only  in  dreams  — 
Being  then  young  and  wry'd, 
Broken  of  ancient  pride, 
Thou  shalt  then  soften, 

1  7.  e.  in  illumed  manuscript.  2  Reincarnate. 

IO 


Knowing  I  know  not  how  Na 

Thou  wert  once  she,  Audiart 

Audiart,  Audiart, 
For  whose  fairness  one  forgave, 

Audiart,  Audiart 
Que  be-m  vols  mal. 


VILLONAUD  FOR  THIS  YULE 

HTO WARDS  the  Noel  that  morte  saison 
-L  (Christ  make  the  shepherds'  homage  dear!) 
Then  when  the  grey  wolves  everychone 
Drink  of  the  winds  their  chill  small-beer 
And  lap  o'  the  snows  food's  gueredon, 
Then  maketh  my  heart  his  yule-tide  cheer 
(Skoal !  with  the  dregs  if  the  clear  be  gone !) 
Wincing  the  ghosts  of  yester-year. 

Ask  ye  what  ghosts  I  dream  upon? 
(What  of  the  magians'  scented  gear?) 
The  ghosts  of  dead  loves  everyone 
That  make  the  stark  winds  reek  with  fear 
Lest  love  return  with  the  foison  sun 
And  slay  the  memories  that  me  cheer 
(Such  as  I  drink  to  mine  fashion) 
Wincing  the  ghosts  of  yester-year. 

Where  are  the  joys  my  heart  had  won? 
(Saturn  and  Mars  to  Zeus  drawn  near!)1 
Where  are  the  lips  mine  lay  upon, 

1  Signum  Nativitatis* 
II 


Vittonaud  Aye !  where  are  the  glances  feat  and  clear 
JYuie         That  bade  my  heart  his  valour  don? 
I  skoal  to  the  eyes  as  grey-blown  mere 
(Who  knows  whose  was  that  paragon?) 
Wincing  the  ghosts  of  yester-year. 

Prince:  ask  me  not  what  I  have  done, 
Nor  what  God  hath  that  can  me  cheer, 
But  ye  ask  first  where  the  winds  are  gone 
Wincing  the  ghosts  of  yester-year. 


A  VILLONAUD,  BALLAD  OF  THE  GIBBET 

OR,  THE  SONG  OF  THE  SIXTH  COMPANION 

SCENE:  "En  cest  bourdel  ou  tenoms  nostr  estat." 

It  being  remembered  that  there  were  six  of  us  with  Master  Villon, 
when  that  expecting  presently  to  be  hanged  he  writ  a  ballad 
whereof  ye  know : 

"  Frtres  humftins  qui  aprls  nous  vivez" 

DRINK  ye  a  skoal  for  the  gallows  tree ! 
Francois  and  Margot  and  thee  and  me, 
Drink  we  the  comrades  merrily 
Who  said  us,  "Till  then"  for  the  gallows  tree! 

Fat  Pierre  with  the  hook  gauche-main, 
Thomas  Larron  "Ear-the-less," 
Tybalde  and  that  armouress 
Who  gave  this  poignard  its  premier  stain 
Pinning  the  Guise  that  had  been  fain 
To  make  him  a  mate  of  the  "Haulte  Noblesse" 
And  bade  her  be  out  with  ill  address 
As  a  fool  that  mocketh  his  drue's  disdeign. 


Drink  we  a  skoal  for  the  gallows  tree !  A  Vitton- 

Francoi-s  and  Margot  and  thee  and  me,  fjf  % 

T^  •   i  .     TVT     •  TT-J   i  lad  of  the 

Drink  we  to  Manenne  Ydole,  Gibbet 

That  hell  brenn  not  her  o'er  cruelly. 

Drink  we  the  lusty  robbers  twain, 
Black  is  the  pitch  o'  their  wedding  dress,1 
Lips  shrunk  back  for  the  wind's  caress 
As  lips  shrink  back  when  we  feel  the  strain 
Of  love  that  loveth  in  hell's  disdeign 
And  sense  the  teeth  through  the  lips  that  press 
'Gainst  our  lips  for  the  soul's  distress 
That  striveth  to  ours  across  the  pain. 

Drink  we  skoal  to  the  gallows  tree! 
Francois  and  Margot  and  thee  and  me, 
For  Jehan  and  Raoul  de  Vallerie 
Whose  frames  have  the  night  and  its  winds  in  fee 

Maturin,  Guillaume,  Jacques  d'Allmain, 
Culdou,  lacking  a  coat  to  bless 
One  lean  moiety  of  his  nakedness, 
That  plundered  St.  Hubert  back  o'  the  fane: 
Aie !  the  lean  bare  tree  is  widowed  again 
For  Michault  le  Borgne  that  would  confess 
In  "faith  and  troth"  to  a  traitor  ess, 
"Which  of  his  brothers  had  he  slain?" 

But  drink  we  skoal  to  the  gallows  tree ! 
Francois  and  Margot  and  thee  and  me: 

1  Certain  gibbeted  corpses  used  to  be  coated  with  tar  as  a  pre- 
servative ;  thus  one  scarecrow  served  as  warning  for  considerable 
time.  See  Hugo,  "  L'Homme  qui  Rit." 

13 


A  Villon-  These  that  we  loved  shall  God  love  less 
fadoftfie   ^nc*  sm*te  alwav  at  their  feebleness? 
Gibbet 

Skoal !  1  to  the  Gallows !  and  then  pray  we: 

God  damn  his  hell  out  speedily 

And  bring  their  souls  to  his  High  City. 


MESMERISM 

"And  a  cat 's  in  the  water-butt."  —  ROBERT  BROWNING. 

YE,  you  're  a  man  that !  ye  old  mesmerizer ! 

•  Tyin'  your  meanin'  in  seventy  swadelin's, 
One  must  of  needs  be  a  hang'd  early  riser 
To  catch   you  at   worm   turning.     Holy  Odd's 
bodykins ! 

"Cat 's  i'  the  water-butt!"      Thought 's  in  your 

verse-barrel, 

Tell  us  this  thing  rather,  then  we  '11  believe  you, 
You,  Master  Bob  Browning,  spite  your  apparel 
Jump  to  your  sense  and  give  praise  as  we  'd  lief  do. 

You  wheeze  as  a  head-cold  long-tonsilled  Calliope, 
But,  God !  what  a  sight  you  ha'  got  o'  our  in'ards, 
Mad  as  a  hatter  but  surely  no  Myope, 
Broad  as  all  ocean  and  leanin'  mankin'ards. 

Heart  that  was  big  as  the  bowels  of  Vesuvius, 
Words  that  were  wing'd  as  her  sparks  in  eruption^ 
Eagled  and  thundered  as  Jupiter  Pluvius, 
Sound  in  your  wind  past  all  signs  o'  corruption. 
14 


Here  's  to  you,  Old  Hippety-hop  o'  the  accents,         Mesmer- 
True  to  the  Truth's  sake  and  crafty  dissector,  ism 

You  grabbed  at  the  gold  sure;  had  no  need  to  pack 

cents 
Into  your  versicles. 

Clear  sight's  elector ! 


FAMAM  LIBROSQUE  CANO 

YOUR  songs? 
Oh !    The  little  mothers 
Will  sing  them  in  the  twilight, 
And  when  the  night 
Shrinketh  the  kiss  of  the  dawn 
That  loves  and  kills, 
What  time  the  swallow  fills 
Her  note,  the  little  rabbit  folk 
That  some  call  children, 
Such  as  are  up  and  wide 
Will  laugh  your  verses  to  each  other, 
Pulling  on  their  shoes  for  the  day's  business, 
Serious  child  business  that  the  world 
Laughs  at,  and  grows  stale; 
Such  is  the  tale 
—  Part  of  it  —  of  thy  song-life. 


Mine? 


A  book  is  known  by  them  that  read 
That  same.     Thy  public  in  my  screed 
Is  listed.    Well !     Some  score  years  hence 
Behold  mine  audience, 
As  we  had  seen  him  yesterday. 
15 


Famam  Scrawny,  be-spectacled,  out  at  heels, 

Such  an  one  as  the  wor!d  feels 
A  sort  of  curse  against  its  guzzling 

And  its  age-lasting  wallow  for  red  greed 

And  yet,  full  speed 

Though  it  should  run  for  its  own  getting, 

Will  turn  aside  to  sneer  at 

'Cause  he  hath 

No  coin,  no  will  to  snatch  the  aftermath 

Of  Mammon. 

Such  an  one  as  women  draw  away  from 

For  the  tobacco  ashes  scattered  on  his  coat 

And  sith  his  throat 

Show  razor's  unfamiliarity 

And  three  days'  beard: 


Such  an  one  picking  a  ragged 
Backless  copy  from  the  stall, 
Too  cheap  for  cataloguing, 
Loquitur, 


"Ah-eh!  the  strange  rare  name  .  .  . 
Ah-eh !    He  must  be  rare  if  even  /  have  not 
And  lost  mid -page 
Such  age 

As  his  pardons  the  habit, 
He  analyzes  form  and  thought  to  see 
How  I  'scaped  immortality. 


16 


TEMPORE  SENECTUTIS 

OR  we  are  old 
And  the  earth  passion  dieth; 
We  have  watched  him  die  a  thousand  times, 
When  he  wanes  an  old  wind  crieth, 

For  we  are  old 

And  passion  hath  died  for  us  a  thousand  times 
But  we  grew  never  weary. 

Memory  faileth,  as  the  lotus-loved  chimes 
Sink  into  fluttering  of  wind, 
But  we  grow  never  weary 
For  we  are  old. 

The  strange  night-wonder  of  your  eyes 
Dies  not,  though  passion  flieth 

Along  the  star  fields  of  Arcturus 
And  is  no  more  unto  our  hands; 

My  lips  are  cold 

And  yet  we  twain  are  never  weary, 
And  the  strange  night-wonder  is  upon  us, 
The  leaves  hold  our  wonder  in  their  flutterings, 
The  wind  fills  our  mouths  with  strange  words 
For  our  wonder  that  grows  not  old. 

The  moth-hour  of  our  day  is  upon  us 

Holding  the  dawn; 

There  is  strange  Night-wonder  in  our  eyes 
Because  the  Moth-Hour  leadeth  the  dawn 
As  a  maiden,  holding  her  fingers, 
The  rosy,  slender  fingers  of  the  dawn." 
17 


In  Tem-    He  saith:  "Red  spears  bore  the  warrior  dawn 


Of  old 
nectutis.  OA  ,  T          ,  **: 

Strange!  Love,  hast  thou  forgotten 

The  red  spears  of  the  dawn, 
The  pennants  of  the  morning?" 

She  saith:  "Nay,  I  remember,  but  now 

Cometh  the  Dawn,  and  the  Moth-Hour 
Together  with  him  ;  softly 
For  we  are  old." 


CAMARADERIE 

"  E  tuttogite  to  fosse  a  la  cantpagnia  di  molti,  quanta  alia  vista" 

SOMETIMES  I  feel  thy  cheek  against  my  face 
Close-pressing,  soft  as  is  the  South's  first  breath 
That  all  the  subtle  earth-things  summoneth 
To  spring  in  wood-land  and  in  meadow  space. 

Yea  sometimes  in  a  bustling  man -filled  place 
Meseemeth  some-wise  thy  hair  wandereth 
Across  mine  eyes,  as  mist  that  halloweth 
The  air  awhile  and  giveth  all  things  grace. 

Or  on  still  evenings  when  the  rain  falls  close 
There  comes  a  tremor  in  the  drops,  and  fast 
My  pulses  run,  knowing  thy  thought  hath  passed 
That  beareth  thee  as  doth  the  wind  a  rose. 
18 


FOR   E.   McC. 

THAT  WAS  MY  COUNTER-BLADE  UNDER  LEONARDO 
TERRONE,  MASTER  OF  FENCE 

i~*  ONE  while  your  tastes  were  keen  to  you, 
\J  Gone  where  the  grey  winds  call  to  you, 
By  that  high  fencer,  even  Death, 
Struck  of  the  blade  that  no  man  parrieth; 
Such  is  your  fence,  one  saith, 

One  that  hath  known  you. 
Drew  you  your  sword  most  gallantly, 
Made  you  your  pass  most  valiantly 

'Gainst  that  grey  fencer,  even  Death. 

Gone  as  a  gust  of  breath 

Faith !  no  man  tarrieth, 

"Se  il  cor  ti  manca"  but  it  failed  thee  not! 

"Non  tifidar"  it  is  the  sword  that  speaks 

"In  me."1 

Thou  trusted'st  in  thyself  and  met  the  blade 
Thout  mask  or  gauntlet,  and  art  laid 
As  memorable  broken  blades  that  be 
Kept  as  bold  trophies  of  old  pageantry. 
As  old  Toledos  past  their  days  of  war 
Are  kept  mnemonic  of  the  strokes  they  bore, 
So  art  thou  with  us,  being  good  to  keep 
In  our  heart's  sword-rack,  though  thy  sword-arm 
sleep. 

ENVOI 

Struck  of  the  blade  that  no  man  parrieth, 
Pierced  of  the  point  that  toucheth  lastly  all, 
'Gainst  that  grey  fencer,  even  Death, 
Behold  the  shield !    He  shall  not  take  thee  all. 

1  Sword-rune,  "  If  thy  heart  fail  thee  trust  not  in  me." 
19 


BALLAD  FOR  GLOOM 

FOR  God,  our  God,  is  a  gallant  foe 
That  playeth  behind  the  veil. 

I  have  loved  my  God  as  a  child  at  heart 
That  seeketh  deep  bosoms  for  rest, 
I  have  loved  my  God  as  maid  to  man, 
But  lo,  this  thing  is  best: 

To  love  your  God  as  a  gallant  foe 

that  plays  behind  the  veil, 

To  meet  your  God  as  the  night  winds  meet 
beyond  Arcturus'  pale. 

I  have  played  with  God  for  a  woman, 
I  have  staked  with  my  God  for  truth, 
I  have  lost  to  my  God  as  a  man,  clear  eyed; 
His  dice  be  not  of  ruth. 

For  I  am  made  as  a  naked  blade, 
But  hear  ye  this  thing  in  sooth : 

Who  loseth  to  God  as  man  to  man 
Shall  win  at  the  turn  of  the  game. 

I  have  drawn  my  blade  where  the  lightnings  meet 

But  the  ending  is  the  same: 

Who  loseth  to  God  as  the  sword  blades  lose 
Shall  win  at  the  end  of  the  game. 

For  God,  our  God,  is  a  gallant  foe 

that  playeth  behind  the  veil, 

Whom  God  deigns  not  to  overthrow 

hath  need  of  triple  mail. 
20 


AT  THE  HEART  O'  ME 
A.D.  751 

WITH  ever  one  fear  at  the  heart  oj  me 
Long  by  still  sea-coasts 

coursed  my  Grey-Falcon, 
And  the  twin  delights 

of  shore  and  sea  were  mine, 
Sapphire  and  emerald  with 
fine  pearls  between. 

Through  the  pale  courses  of 

the  land-caressing  in-streams 
Glided  my  barge  and 

the  kindly  strange  peoples 
Gave  to  me  laugh  for  laugh, 

and  wine  for  my  tales  of  wandering. 
And  the  cities  gave  me  welcome 

and  the  fields  free  passage, 
With  ever  one  fear 

at  the  heart  oj  me. 

An  thou  should'st  grow  weary 

ere  my  returning, 
An  "they"  should  call  to  thee 

from  out  the  borderland, 
What  should  avail  me 

booty  of  whale-ways? 
What  should  avail  me 

gold  rings  or  the  chain-mail? 
What  should  avail  me 

the  many-twined  bracelets? 
What  should  avail  me, 

O  my  beloved, 

21 


At  the       Here  in  this  "Middan-gard"  * 
^g|j£  what  should  avail  me 

Out  of  the  booty  and 

gain  of  my  goings? 

THE  TREE 

From  "  A  Lume  Spento." 

T  STOOD  still  and  was  a  tree  amid  the  wood, 
A  Knowing  the  truth  of  things  unseen  before; 
Of  Daphne  and  the  laurel  bow 
And  that  god-feasting  couple  old 
That  grew  elm-oak  amid  the  wold. 
'T  was  not  until  the  gods  had  been 
Kindly  entreated,  and  been  brought  within 
Unto  the  hearth  of  their  heart's  home 
That  they  might  do  this  wonder  thing; 
Nathless  I  have  been  a  tree  amid  the  wood 
And  many  a  new  thing  understood 
That  was  rank  folly  to  my  head  before. 

AN  IDYL  FOR  GLAUCUS 

Nel  suo  aspetto  tal  dentro  mifei 

gualsife"*  Glauco  nel  gustar  del?  erba 
he  ilfe*  consorto  in  mar  degli  altri  dei* 
PARADISO,  i,  67-9. 

"As  Glaucus  tasting  the  grass  that  made 
hint  sea-fellow  with  the  other  gods." 

I 

WHITHER  he  went  I  may  not  follow  him. 
His  eyes 

Were  strange  to-day.    They  always  were, 
After  their  fashion,  kindred  of  the  sea. 

i  Anglo-Saxon,  "Earth." 
22 


To-day  I  found  him.    It  was  very  long  An  Idyl 

That  I  had  sought  among  the  nets,  and  when  I 

asked 

The  fishermen,  they  laughed  at  me. 
I  sought  long  days  amid  the  cliffs  thinking  to  find 
The  body-house  of  him,  and  then 
There  at  the  blue  cave-mouth  my  joy 
Grew  pain  for  suddenness,  to  see  him  'live. 
Whither  he  went  I  may  not  come,  it  seems 
He  is  become  estranged  from  all  the  rest, 
And  all  the  sea  is  now  his  wonder-house. 
And  he  may  sink  unto  strange  depths,  he  tells  me  of, 
That  have  no  light  as  we  it  deem. 
E'en  now  he  speaks  strange  words.    I  did  not  know 
One  half  the  substance  of  his  speech  with  me. 
And  then  when  I  saw  naught  he  sudden  leaped, 
And  shot,  a  gleam  of  silver,  down,  away. 
And  I  have  spent  three  days  upon  this  rock 
And  yet  he  comes  no  more. 
He  did  not  even  seem  to  know 
I  watched  him  gliding  through  the  vitreous  deep. 


n 

They  chide  me  that  the  skein  I  used  to  spin 

Holds  not  my  interest  now, 

They  mock  me  at  the  route.     Well,  I  have  come 

again. 

Last  night  I  saw  three  white  forms  move, 
Out  past  the  utmost  wave  that  bears  the  white  foam 

crest. 

I  somehow  knew  that  he  was  one  of  them. 
23 


An  Idyl     Oime,  Oime!  I  think  each  time  they  come 

^Glaucus     ^P  *rom  t^ie  sea  ^eart  to  our  rea^m  °f  a*1" 
They  are  more  far-removed  from  the  shore. 

When  first  I  found  him  here,  he  slept 

E'en  as  he  might  after  a  long  night's  taking  on  the 

deep, 

And  when  he  woke  some  whit  the  old  kind  smile 
Dwelt  round  his  lips  and  held  him  near  to  me. 
But  then  strange  gleams  shot  through  the  grey-deep 

eyes 

As  though  he  saw  beyond  and  saw  not  me, 
And  when  he  moved  to  speak  it  troubled  him. 
And  then  he  plucked  at  grass  and  bade  me  eat. 
And  then  forgot  me  for  the  sea  its  charm 
And  leapt  him  in  the  wave  and  so  was  gone. 


in 

I  wonder  why  he  mocked  me  with  the  grass. 
I  know  not  any  more  how  long  it  is 
Since  I  have  dwelt  not  in  my  mother's  house. 
I  know  they  think  me  mad,  for  all  night  long 
I  haunt  the  sea-marge,  thinking  I  may  find 
Some  day  the  herb  he  offered  unto  me. 
Perhaps  he  did  not  jest ;  they  say  some  simples  have 
More  wide-spanned  power  than  old  wives  draw 

from  them. 

Perhaps,  found  I  this  grass,  he  'd  come  again. 
Perhaps  't  is  some  strange  charm  to  draw  him  here, 
'Thout  which  he  may  not  leave  his  new-found  crew 
That  ride  the  two-foot  coursers  of  the  deep, 
And  laugh  in  storms  and  break  the  fishers'  nets. 
Oime,  Oime! 

24 


SONG  An  Idyl 

for 
Voices  in  the  Wind.  Glaucus 

We  have  worn  the  blue  and  vair, 

And  all  the  sea-caves 

Know  us  of  old,  and  know  our  new-found  mate. 

There  's  many  a  secret  stair 

The  sea-folk  climb  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  Wind. 
Oime,  Oime ! 

I  wonder  why  the  wind,  even  the  wind  doth  seem 

To  mock  me  now,  all  night,  all  night,  and 

I  have  strayed  among  the  cliffs  here. 

They  say,  some  day  I  '11  fall 

Down  through  the  sea-bit  fissures,  and  no  more 

Know  the  warm  cloak  of  sun,  or  bathe 

The  dew  across  my  tired  eyes  to  comfort  them. 

They  try  to  keep  me  hid  within  four  walls. 

I  will  not  stay ! 

Oime! 
And  the  wind  saith,  "  Oime ! " 

I  am  quite  tired  now. 

I  know  the  grass 

Must  grow  somewhere  along  this  Thracian  coast, 
If  only  he  would  come  some  little  while  and  find 
it  me. 

ENDETH  THE  LAMENT  FOR  GLAUCUS 
25 


MARVOIL1 

A  POOR  clerk  I,  "Arnaut  the  less"  they  call  me, 
And  because  I  have  small  mind  to  sit 
Day  long,  long  day  cooped  on  a  stool  t 

A-jumbling  o'  figures  for  Maitre  Jacques  Polin, 
I  ha'  taken  to  rambling  the  South  here. 

The  Vicomte  of  Beziers  's  not  such  a  bad  lot. 

I  made  rimes  to  his  lady  this  three  year: 

Vers  and  canzone,  till  that  damn'd  son  of  Aragon, 

Alfonso  the  half-bald,  took  to  hanging 

His  helmet  at  Beziers. 

Then  came  what  might  come,  to  wit:  three  men  and 

one  woman, 

Beziers  off  at  Mont-Ausier,  I  and  his  lady 
Singing  the  stars  in  the  turrets  of  Beziers, 
And  one  lean  Aragonese  cursing  the  seneschal 
To  the  end  that  you  see,  friends: 

Aragon  cursing  in  Aragon,  Beziers  busy  at  Beziers — 

Bored  to  an  inch  of  extinction, 

Tibors  all  tongue  and  temper  at  Mont-Ausier, 

Me !  in  this  damn'd  inn  of  Avignon, 

Stringing  long  verse  for  the  Burlatz; 

All  for  one  half-bald,  knock-knee'd  king  of  the 

Aragonese, 
Alfonso,  Quatro,  poke-nose. 

And  if  when  I  am  dead 
They  take  the  trouble  to  tear  out  this  wall  here, 
They  '11  know  more  of  Arnaut  of  Marvoil 
Than  half  his  canzoni  say  of  him. 

1  See  note  at  end  of  volume. 
26 


As  for  will  and  testament  I  leave  none,  Marvoil 

Save  this:  "Vers  and  canzone  to  the  Countess  of 

Beziers 

In  return  for  the  first  kiss  she  gave  me." 
May  her  eyes  and  her  cheek  be  fair 
To  all  men  except  the  King  of  Aragon, 
And  may  I  come  speedily  to  Beziers 
Whither  my  desire  and  my  dream  have  preceded 

me. 

O  hole  in  the  wall  here !  be  thou  my  jongleur 
As  ne'er  had  I  other,  and  when  the  wind  blows, 
Sing  thou  the  grace  of  the  Lady  of  Beziers, 
For  even  as  thou  art  hollow  before  I  fill  thee  with 

this  parchment, 

So  is  my  heart  hollow  when  she  filleth  not  mine  eyes, 
And  so  were  my  mind  hollow,  did  she  not  fill  utterly 

my  thought. 

Wherefore,  O  hole  in  the  wall  here, 

When  the  wind  blows  sigh  thou  for  my  sorrow 

That  I  have  not  the  Countess  of  Beziers 

Close  in  my  arms  here. 

Even  as  thou  shalt  soon  have  this  parchment. 

O  hole  in  the  wall  here,  be  thou  my  jongleur, 
And  though  thou  sighest  my  sorrow  in  the  wind, 
Keep  yet  my  secret  in  thy  breast  here; 
Even  as  I  keep  her  image  in  my  heart  here. 

M ihi  pergamena  deest. 
27 


i 


IN  THE  OLD  AGE  OF  THE  SOUL 

DO  not  choose  to  dream;  there  cometh  on  me 
Some  strange  old  lust  for  deeds. 
As  to  the  nerveless  hand  of  some  old  warrior 
The  sword-hilt  or  the  war-worn  wonted  helmet 
Brings  momentary  life  and  long-fled  cunning, 
So  to  my  soul  grown  old  — 
Grown  old  with  many  a  jousting,  many  a  foray, 
Grown  old  with  many  a  hither-coming  and  hence- 
going  — 

Till  now  they  send  him  dreams  and  no  more  deed ; 
So  doth  he  flame  again  with  might  for  action, 
Forgetful  of  the  council  of  the  elders, 
Forgetful  that  who  rules  doth  no  more  battle, 
Forgetful  that  such  might  no  more  cleaves  to  him; 
So  doth  he  flame  again  toward  valiant  doing. 


REVOLT 

AGAINST    THE    CREPUSCULAR    SPIRIT    IN    MODERN 
POETRY 

I  WOULD  shake  off  the  lethargy  of  this  our  time, 
and  give 

For  shadows  —  shapes  of  power, 
For  dreams  —  men. 

"It  is  better  to  dream  than  do?" 

Aye!  and,  No! 
28 


Aye !  if  we  dream  great  deeds,  strong  men,  Revolt 

Hearts  hot,  thoughts  mighty. 


No !  if  we  dream  pale  flowers, 
Slow-moving  pageantry  of  hours  that  languidly 
Drop  as  o'er-ripened  fruit  from  sallow  trees. 
If  so  we  live  and  die  not  life  but  dreams, 
Great  God,  grant  life  in  dreams, 
Not  dalliance,  but  life ! 


Let  us  be  men  that  dream, 

Not  cowards,  dabblers,  waiters 

For  dead  Time  to  reawaken  and  grant  balm 

For  ills  unnamed. 


Great  God,  if  we  be  damn'd  to  be  not  men  but  only 

dreams, 
Then  tet  us  be  such  dreams  the  world  shall  tremble 

at 

And  know  we  be  its  rulers  though  but  dreams ! 
Then  let  us  be  such  shadows  as  the  world  shall 

tremble  at 
And  know  we  be  its  masters  though  but  shadow ! 


High   God,   if    men   are   grown   but    pale  sick 

phantoms 
That  must  live  only  in  these  mists  and  tempered 

lights 

And  tremble  for  dim  hours  that  knock  o'er  loud 
Or  tread  too  violent  in  passing  them; 
29 


Revolt       Great  God,  if  these  thy  sons  are  grown  such  thin 

ephemera, 

I  bid  thee  grapple  chaos  and  beget 
Some  new  titanic  spawn  to  pile  the  hills  and  stir 
This  earth  again. 


AND  THUS  IN  NINEVEH 

YE !  I  am  a  poet  and  upon  my  tomb 

Shall  maidens  scatter  rose  leaves 
And  men  myrtles,  ere  the  night 
Slays  day  with  her  dark  sword. 

"Lo!  this  thing  is  not  mine 

Nor  thine  to  hinder, 

For  the  custom  is  full  old, 

And  here  in  Nineveh  have  I  beheld 

Many  a  singer  pass  and  take  his  place 

In  those  dim  halls  where  no  man  troubleth 

His  sleep  or  song. 

And  many  a  one  hath  sung  his  songs 

More  craftily,  more  subtle-souled  than  I; 

And  many  a  one  now  doth  surpass 

My  wave-worn  beauty  with  his  wind  of  flowers, 

Yet  am  I  poet,  and  upon  my  tomb 

Shall  all  men  scatter  rose  leaves  ere  the  night 

Slay  light  with  her  blue  sword. 

"It  is  not,  Raana,  that  my  song  rings  highest 
Or  more  sweet  in  tone  than  any,  but  that  I 
Am  here  a  Poet,  that  doth  drink  of  life 
As  lesser  men  drink  wine." 
30 


i 


THE  WHITE  STAG 

HA*  seen  them  mid  the  clouds  on  the  heather. 

Lo!  they  pause  not  for  love  nor  for  sorrow, 
Yet  their  eyes  are  as  the  eyes  of  a  maid  to  her  lover, 
When  the  white  hart  breaks  his  cover 
And  the  white  wind  breaks  the  morn. 

"  'T  is  the  white  stag,  Fame,  we  're  a-hunting, 
Bid  the  world's  hounds  come  to  horn!" 


PICCADILLY 

BEAUTIFUL,  tragical  faces, 
Ye  that  were  whole,  and  are  so  sunken; 
And,  O  ye  vile,  ye  that  might  have  been  loved, 
That  are  so  sodden  and  drunken, 

Who  hath  forgotten  you? 

O  wistful,  fragile  faces,  few  out  of  many! 

The  gross,  the  coarse,  the  brazen, 

God  knows  I  cannot  pity  them,  perhaps,  as  I  should 

do, 
But,  oh,  ye  delicate,  wistful  faces, 

Who  hath  forgotten  you? 


EXULTATIONS 


/  am  an  eternal  spirit  and  the  things  I  make  are 
but  ephemera,  yet  I  endure: 
Yea,  and  the  little  earth  crumbles  beneath  our  feet 
and  we  endure. 


TO  CARLOS  TRACY  CHESTER 


NIGHT   LITANY 


o 


DIEU,  purifiez  nos  coeurs! 
Purifiez  nos  coeurs! 


Yea,  the  lines  hast  thou  laid  unto  me 
in  pleasant  places, 

And  the  beauty  of  this  thy  Venice 

hast  thou  shown  unto  me 

Until  is  its  loveliness  become  unto  me 
a  thing  of  tears. 

O  God,  what  great  kindness 

have  we  done  in  times  past 

and  forgotten  it, 
That  thou  givest  this  wonder  unto  us, 

O  God  of  waters? 

O  God  of  the  night, 

What  great  sorrow 
Cometh  unto  us, 

That  thou  thus  repayest  us 
Before  the  time  of  its  coming? 

O  God  of  silence, 

Purifiez  nos  coeurs, 
Purifiez  nos  coeurs, 
For  we  have  seen 
The  glory  of  the  shadow  of  the 
likeness  of  thine  handmaid, 
Yea,  the  glory  of  the  shadow 
of  thy  Beauty  hath  walked 
37 


Night        Upon  the  shadow  of  the  waters 
Litany  In  this  thy  Venice. 

And  before  the  holiness 
Of  the  shadow  of  thy  handmaid 
Have  I  hidden  mine  eyes, 
O  God  of  waters. 


O  God  of  silence, 

Purifiez  nos  coeurs, 

Purifiez  nos  coeurs, 
O  God  of  waters, 

make  clean  our  hearts  within  us 
And  our  lips  to  show  forth  thy  praise, 

For  I  have  seen  the 
Shadow  of  this  thy  Venice 
Floating  upon  the  waters, 

And  thy  stars 

Have  seen  this  thing,  out  of  their  far  courses 
Have  they  seen  this  thing, 

O  God  of  waters, 
Even  as  are  thy  stars 
Silent  unto  us  in  their  far-coursing, 
Even  so  is  mine  heart 

become  silent  within  me. 


Purifiez  nos  cosurs, 
O  God  of  the  silence, 

Purifiez  nos  coeurs, 
O  God  of  waters. 


SESTINA:  ALTAFORTE 

LOQUITUR  :  En  Bertrans  de  Born. 

Dante  Alighieri  put  this  man  in  hell  for  that  he  was  a  stirrer-up 

of  strife. 

Eccovi ! 

Judge  ye ! 

Have  I  dug  him  up  again  ? 

The  scene  is  at  his  castle,  Altaforte.    "  Papiols  "  is  his  jongleur. 

The  "  Leopard,"  the  device  of  Richard  (Coeur  de  Lion). 


DAMN  it  all !  all  this  our  South  stinks  peace. 
You  whoreson  dog,  Papiols,  come !    Let 's  to 

music! 

I  have  no  life  save  when  the  swords  clash. 
But  ah !  when  I  see  the  standards  gold,  vair,  purple, 

opposing 

And  the  broad  fields  beneath  them  turn  crimson, 
Then  howl  I  my  heart  nigh  mad  with  rejoicing. 


In  hot  summer  have  I  great  rejoicing 
When  the  tempests  kill  the  earth's  foul  peace, 
And  the  lightnings  from  black  heav'n  flash  crimson, 
And  the  fierce  thunders  roar  me  their  music 
And  the  winds  shriek  through  the  clouds  mad,  op- 
posing, 
And  through  all  the  riven  skies  God's  swords  clash. 


m 

Hell  grant  soon  we  hear  again  the  swords  clash ! 
And  the  shrill  neighs  of  destriers  in  battle  rejoicing, 
Spiked  breast  to  spiked  breast  opposing/ 
39 


Sestina:    Better  one  hour's  stour  than  a  year's  peace 
Altaforte    with  fat  boards,  bawds,  wine  and  frail  music! 
Bah !  there 's  no  wine  like  the  blood's  crimson ! 

IV 

And  I  love  to  see  the  sun  rise  blood-crimson. 
And  I  watch  his  spears  through  the  dark  clash 
And  it  fills  all  my  heart  with  rejoicing 
And  pries  wide  my  mouth  with  fast  music 
When  I  see  him  so  scorn  and  defy  peace, 
His  lone  might  'gainst  all  darkness  opposing. 


The  man  who  fears  war  and  squats  opposing 
My  words  for  stour,  hath  no  blood  of  crimson, 
But  is  fit  only  to  rot  in  womanish  peace 
Far  from  where  worth  's  won  and  the  swords  clash 
For  the  death  of  such  sluts  I  go  rejoicing; 
Yea,  I  fill  all  the  air  with  my  music. 

VI 

Papiols,  Papiols,  to  the  music ! 

There 's  no  sound  like  to  swords  swords  opposing, 

No  cry  like  the  battle's  rejoicing 

When  our  elbows  and  swords  drip  the  crimson 

And  our  charges  'gainst  "The  Leopard's"  rush 

clash. 
May  God  damn  for  ever  all  who  cry  "Peace!" 

vn 

And  let  the  music  of  the  swords  make  them  crimson ! 
Hell  grant  soon  we  hear  again  the  swords  clash ! 
Hell  blot  black  for  alway  the  thought  "Peace!" 
40 


BALLAD   OF  THE  GOODLY  FERE1 

SIMON    ZELOTES    SPEAKETH    IT    SOMEWHILE    AFTER 
THE  CRUCIFIXION 

FA'  we  lost  the  goodliest  fere  o'  all 

L  For  the  priests  and  the  gallows  tree? 

Aye  lover  he  was  of  brawny  men, 
O'  ships  and  the  open  sea. 

When  they  came  wi'  a  host  to  take  Our  Man 
His  smile  was  good  to  see, 
"First  let  these  go!"  quo'  our  Goodly  Fere, 
"Or  I  '11  see  ye  damned,"  says  he. 

Aye  he  sent  us  out  through  the  crossed  high  spears 
And  the  scorn  of  his  laugh  rang  free, 
"Why  took  ye  not  me  when  I  walked  about 
Alone  in  the  town?"  says  he. 

Oh  we  drank  his  "Hale"  in  the  good  red  wine 

When  we  last  made  company, 

No  capon  priest  was  the  Goodly  Fere, 

But  a  man  o'  men  was  he. 

I  ha*  seen  him  drive  a  hundred  men 
Wi'  a  bundle  oj  cords  swung  free, 
That  they  took  the  high  and  holy  house 
For  their  pawn  and  treasury. 

They  '11  no'  get  him  a'  in  a  book,  I  think, 
Though  they  write  it  cunningly; 
No  mouse  of  the  scrolls  was  the  Goodly  Fere, 
But  aye  loved  the  open  sea. 

1  Fere=s  Mate,  Companion. 
41 


Ballad  of  If  they  think  they  ha'  snared  our  Goodly  Fere 
the  Goodly  They  are  {QQ]B  tQ  ^  ^  degree 

"I  '11  go  to  the  feast,"  quo'  our  Goodly  Fere, 
"Though  I  go  to  the  gallows  tree." 


"Ye  ha'  seen  me  heal  the  lame  and  blind, 
And  wake  the  dead,"  says  he, 
"Ye  shall  see  one  thing  to  master  all: 
'T  is  how  a  brave  man  dies  on  the  tree." 


A  son  of  God  was  the  Goodly  Fere 
That  bade  us  his  brothers  be. 
I  ha'  seen  him  cow  a  thousand  men. 
I  have  seen  him  upon  the  tree. 

He  cried  no  cry  when  they  drave  the  nails 
And  the  blood  gushed  hot  and  free, 
The  hounds  of  the  crimson  sky  gave  tongue 
But  never  a  cry  cried  he. 


I  ha'  seen  him  cow  a  thousand  men 

On  the  hills  o'  Galilee, 

They  whined  as  he  walked  out  calm  between, 

Wi'  his  eyes  like  the  grey  o'  the  sea. 

Like  the  sea  that  brooks  no  voyaging 
With  the  winds  unleashed  and  free, 
Like  the  sea  that  he  cowed  at  Genseret 
Wi'  twey  words  spoke'  suddently. 
42 


A  master  of  men  was  the  Goodly  Fere,  Ballad  of 

A  mate  of  the  wind  and  sea,  fere 

If  they  think  they  ha'  slain  our  Goodly  Fere 
They  are  fools  eternally. 

I  ha'  seen  him  eat  o'  the  honey-comb 
Sin'  they  nailed  him  to  the  tree. 


PORTRAIT 

From  "  La  M&re  Inconnue." 

NOW  would  I  weave  her  portrait  out  of  all  dim 
splendour. 

Of  Provence  and  far  halls  of  memory, 
Lo,  there  come  echoes,  faint  diversity 
Of  blended  bells  at  even's  end,  or 
As  the  distant  seas  should  send  her 
The  tribute  of  their  trembling,  ceaselessly 
Resonant.     Out  of  all  dreams  that  be, 
Say,  shall  I  bid  the  deepest  dreams  attend  her? 

Nay !    For  I  have  seen  the  purplest  shadows  stand 
Alway  with  reverent  chere  that  looked  on  her, 
Silence  himself  is  grown  her  worshipper 
And  ever  doth  attend  her  in  that  land 
Wherein  she  reigneth,  wherefore  let  there  stir 
Naught  but  the  softest  voices,  praising  her. 


THE  EYES 

REST,  Master,  for  we  be  a-weary,  weary, 

»And  would  feel  the  fingers  of  the  wind 
Upon  these  lids  that  lie  over  us 
Sodden  and  lead-heavy. 

43 


The  Eyes          Rest,  brother,  for  lo !  the  dawn  is  without ! 
The  yellow  flame  paleth 
And  the  wax  runs  low. 

Free  us,  for  without  be  goodly  colours, 
Green  of  the  wood-moss  and  flower-colours, 
And  coolness  beneath  the  trees. 

Free  us,  for  we  perish 
In  this  ever-flowing  monotony 
Of  ugly  print  marks,  black 
Upon  white  parchment. 

Free  us,  for  there  is  one 
Whose  smile  more  availeth 
Than  all  the  age-old  knowledge  of  thy  books: 
And  we  would  look  thereon. 


NILS  LYKKE 

BEAUTIFUL,  infinite  memories 
That  are  a-plucking  at  my  heart, 
Why  will  you  be  ever  calling  and  a-calling, 
And  a-murmuring  in  the  dark  there? 
And  a-reaching  out  your  long  hands 
Between  me  and  my  beloved? 

"  And  why  will  you  be  ever  a-casting 
The  black  shadow  of  your  beauty 
On  the  white  face  of  my  beloved 
And  a-glinting  in  the  pools  of  her  eyes?" 
44 


"FAIR  HELENA"  BY  RACKHAM 

"What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world?" 

WHEN  the  purple  twilight  is  unbound, 
To  watch  her  slow,  tall  grace 

and  its  wistful  loveliness, 
And  to  know  her  face 

is  in  the  shadow  there, 
Just  by  two  stars  beneath  that  cloud  — 
The  soft,  dim  cloud  of  her  hair, 
And  to  think  my  voice 

can  reach  to  her 

As  but  the  rumour  of  some  tree-bound  stream, 
Heard  just  beyond  the  forest's  edge, 
Until  she  all  forgets  I  am, 
And  knows  of  me 
Naught  but  my  dream's  felicity. 


GREEK  EPIGRAM 

DAY  and  night  are  never  weary, 
Nor  yet  is  God  of  creating 
For  day  and  night  their  torch-bearers, 
The  aube  and  the  crepuscule. 

So,  when  I  weary  of  praising  the  dawn  and  the  sun- 
set, 

Let  me  be  no  more  counted  among  the  immortals; 
But  number  me  amid  the  wearying  ones, 
Let  me  be  a  man  as  the  herd, 
And  as  the  slave  that  is  given  in  barter. 
45 


N: 


HISTRION 

r  O  man  hath  dared  to  write  this  thing  as  yet, 
i  And  yet  I  know,  how  that  the  souls  of  all  men 

great 

At  times  pass  through  us, 
And  we  are  melted  into  them,  and  are  not 
Save  reflexions  of  their  souls. 
Thus  am  I  Dante  for  a  space  and  am 
One  Francois  Villon,  ballad-lord  and  thief 
Or  am  such  holy  ones  I  may  not  write, 
Lest  blasphemy  be  writ  against  my  name; 
This  for  an  instant  and  the  flame  is  gone. 

'T  is  as  in  midmost  us  there  glows  a  sphere 
Translucent,  molten  gold,  that  is  the  "I" 
And  into  this  some  form  projects  itself: 
Christus,  or  John,  or  eke  the  Florentine; 
And  as  the  clear  space  is  not  if  a  form 's 
Imposed  thereon, 

So  cease  we  from  all  being  for  the  time, 
And  these,  the  Masters  of  the  Soul,  live  on. 


PARACELSUS  IN  EXCELSIS 

"  "DEING  no  longer  human,  why  should  I 

-D  Pretend  humanity  or  don  the  frail  attire? 
Men  have  I  known  and  men,  but  never  one 
Was  grown  so  free  an  essence,  or  become 
So  simply  element  as  what  I  am. 
The  mist  goes  from  the  mirror  and  I  see ! 
Behold !  the  world  of  forms  is  swept  beneath  — 
46 


Turmoil  grown  visible  beneath  our  peace,  Paracel- 

And  we  that  are  grown  formless  rise  above,  s£s  iff . 

Fluids  intangible  that  have  been  men, 

We  seem  as  statues  round  whose  high  risen  base 

Some  overflowing  river  is  run  mad; 

In  us  alone  the  element  of  calm ! 


A  SONG  OF  THE  VIRGIN  MOTHER 

In  "Los  Pastores  de  Belen." 

From  the  Spanish  of  Lope  de  Vega. 

k  S  ye  go  through  these  palm-trees, 


As 


O  holy  angels; 
Sith  sleepeth  my  child  here 
Still  ye  the  branches. 

O  Bethlehem  palm-trees 
That  move  to  the  anger 
Of  winds  in  their  fury, 
Tempestuous  voices, 
Make  ye  no  clamour, 
Run  ye  less  swiftly, 
Sith  sleepeth  the  child  here 
Still  ye  your  branches. 

He  the  divine  child 

Is  here  a-wearied 

Of  weeping  the  earth-pain, 

Here  for  his  rest  would  he 

Cease  from  his  mourning, 

47 


A  Song  o/Only  a  little  while, 
**f  V,ir8in  Sith  sleepeth  this  child  here 
Stay  ye  the  branches. 

Cold  be  the  fierce  winds, 
Treacherous  round  him. 
Ye  see  that  I  have  not 
Wherewith  to  guard  him, 
O  angels,  divine  ones 
That  pass  us  a-flying, 
Sith  sleepeth  my  child  here 
Stay  ye  the  branches. 

Ya  veis  que  no  tengo 
Con  que  guardarlo, 
O  angeles  santos 
Que  vais  volando 
For  que  duerme  mi  nino 
Tened  los  ramos! 


SONG 

LOVE  thou  thy  dream 
All  base  love  scorning, 
Love  thou  the  wind 
And  here  take  warning 
That  dreams  alone  can  truly  be, 
For  't  is  in  dream  I  come  to  thee. 
48 


PLANH  FOR  THE  YOUNG  ENGLISH  KING 

THAT    IS,    PRINCE    HENRY    PLANTAGENET,     ELDER 
BROTHER  TO  RICHARD  "CCEUR  DE  LION  " 

From  the  Provengal  of  Bertrans  de  Born,  "  Si  tuitli  dolelhplor 
elk  marrimen" 

IF  all  the  grief  and  woe  and  bitterness, 
All  dolour,  ill  and  every  evil  chance 
That  ever  came  upon  this  grieving  world 
Were  set  together,  they  would  seem  but  light 
Against  the  death  of  the  young  English  King. 
Worth  lieth  riven  and  Youth  dolorous, 
The  world  o'ershadowed,  soiled  and  overcast, 
Void  of  all  joy  and  full  of  ire  and  sadness. 


Grieving  and  sad  and  full  of  bitterness 

Are  left  in  teen  the  liegemen  courteous, 

The  joglars  supple  and  the  troubadours. 

O'er  much  hath  ta'en  Sir  Death,  that  deadly  warrior, 

In  taking  from  them  the  young  English  King, 

Who  made  the  freest  hand  seem  covetous. 

'Las !    Never  was  nor  will  be  in  this  world 

The  balance  for  this  loss  in  ire  and  sadness ! 


O  skilful  Death  and  full  of  bitterness, 
Well  mayst  thou  boast  that  thou  the  best  chevalier 
That  any  folk  e'er  had,  hast  from  us  taken; 
Sith  nothing  is  that  unto  worth  pertaineth 
But  had  its  life  in  the  young  English  King, 
And  better  were  it,  should  God  grant  his  pleasure 
That  he  should  live  than  many  a  living  dastard 
That  doth  but  wound  the  good  with  ire  and  sadness. 
49 


Planh  for  From  this  faint  world,  now  full  of  bitterness 

EnJlisT*  Love  takes  his  wa^  and  holds  his  Joy  deceitful> 
King         Sith  no  thing  is  but  turneth  unto  anguish 

And  each  to-day  Vails  less  than  yestere'en, 
Let  each  man  visage  this  young  English  King 
That  was  most  valiant  mid  all  worthiest  men  ! 
Gone  is  his  body  fine  and  amorous, 
Whence  have  we  grief,  discord  and  deepest  sadness. 


Him,  whom  it  pleased  for  our  great  bitterness 
To  come  to  earth  to  draw  us  from  misventure, 
Who  drank  of  death  for  our  salvacioun, 
Him  do  we  pray  as  to  a  Lord  most  righteous 
And  humble  eke,  that  the  young  English  King 
He  please  to  pardon,  as  true  pardon  is, 
And  bid  go  in  with  honoured  companions 
There  where  there  is  no  grief,  nor  shall  be  sadness. 


ALBA  INNOMINATA 

From  the  Provencal. 

FN  a  garden  where  the  whitethorn  spreads  her 


r 


leaves 

My  lady  hath  her  love  lain  close  beside  her, 
Till  the  warder  cries  the  dawn  —  Ah  dawn  that 

grieves ! 

Ah  God !   Ah  God !   That  dawn  should  come  so 
soon! 

50 


"  Please  God  that  night,  dear  night,  should  never  Alba  In- 
cease,  nominata 

Nor  that  my  love  should  parted  be  from  me, 

Nor  watch  cry 'Dawn'  —  Ah  dawn  that  slayeth 
peace! 

Ah  God !  Ah  God !  That  dawn  should  come  so 
soon! 

"Fair  friend  and  sweet,  thy  lips !    Our  lips  again 
Lo,  in  the  meadow  there  the  birds  give  song ! 
Ours  be  the  love  and  Jealousy's  the  pain ! 
Ah  God!  Ah  God!  That  dawn  should  come  so 
soon! 

"Sweet  friend  and  fair,  take  we  our  joy  again 
Down  in  the  garden,  where  the  birds  are  loud, 
Till  the  warder's  reed  astrain 
Cry  God!  Ah  God!  That  dawn  should  come  so 
soon! 

"  Of  that  sweet  wind  that  comes  from  Far-Away 
Have  I  drunk  deep  of  my  Beloved's  breath, 
Yea !  of  my  Love's  that  is  so  dear  and  gay. 
Ah  God !   Ah  God !    That  dawn  should  come  so 
soon!" 

Envoi 

Fair  is  this  damsel  and  right  courteous, 
And  many  watch  her  beauty's  gracious  ways. 
Her  heart  toward  love  is  no  wise  traitorous. 
Ah  God!  Ah  God!  That  dawn  should  come  so 
soon! 


LAUD ANTES 


w 


HEN  your  beauty  is  grown  old  in  all  men's 


And  my  poor  words  are  lost  amid  that  throng, 
Then  you  will  know  the  truth  of  my  poor  words, 
And  mayhap  dreaming  of  the  wistful  throng 
That  hopeless  sigh  your  praises  in  their  songs, 
You  will  think  kindly  then  of  these  mad  words. 


I  am  torn,  torn  with  thy  beauty, 

O  Rose  of  the  sharpest  thorn ! 

O  Rose  of  the  crimson  beauty, 

Why  hast  thou  awakened  the  sleeper? 

Why  hast  thou  awakened  the  heart  within  me, 

O  Rose  of  the  crimson  thorn? 


The  unappeasable  loveliness 

is  calling  to  me  out  of  the  wind, 
And  because  your  name 

is  written  upon  the  ivory  doors, 
The  wave  in  my  heart  is  as  a  green  wave,  unconfined, 
Tossing  the  white  foam  toward  you; 
And  the  lotus  that  pours 
Her  fragrance  into  the  purple  cup 
Is  more  to  be  gained  with  the  foam 
Than  are  you  with  these  words  of  mine. 
52 


IV  Laudantes 

He  speaks  to  the  moonlight  concerning  the  Beloved. 

Pale  hair  that  the  moon  has  shaken 
Down  over  the  dark  breast  of  the  sea, 

0  magic  her  beauty  has  shaken 
About  the  heart  of  me; 

Out  of  you  have  I  woven  a  dream 
That  shall  walk  in  the  lonely  vale 
Betwixt  the  high  hill  and  the  low  hill, 
Until  the  pale  stream 
Of  the  souls  of  men  quench  and  grow  still. 

v 

Voices  speaking  to  the  sun. 

Red  leaf  that  art  blown  upward  and  out  and  over 

The  green  sheaf  of  the  world, 

And  through  the  dim  forest  and  under 

The  shadowed  arches  and  the  aisles, 

We,  who  are  older  than  thou  art, 

Met  and  remembered  when  his  eyes  beheld  her 

In  the  garden  of  the  peach-trees, 

In  the  day  of  the  blossoming. 

VI 

1  stood  on  the  hill  of  Yrma 

when  the  winds  were  a-hurrying, 
With  the  grasses  a-bending 

I  followed  them, 
Through  the  brown  grasses  of  Ahva 

unto  the  green  of  Asedon. 
53 


Laudantes  I  have  rested  with  the  voices 

in  the  gardens  of  Ahthor, 
I  have  lain  beneath  the  peach-trees 

in  the  hour  of  the  purple: 

Because  I  had  awaited  in 

the  garden  of  the  peach-trees, 
Because  I  had  feared  not 

in  the  forest  of  my  mind, 
Mine  eyes  beheld  the  vision  of  the  blossom 
There  in  the  peach-gardens  past  Asedon. 

0  winds  of  Yrma,  let  her  again  come  unto  me, 
Whose  hair  ye  held  unbound  in  the  gardens  of 

Ahthor! 

vn 

Because  of  the  beautiful  white  shoulders  and  the 
rounded  breasts 

1  can  in  no  wise  forget  my  beloved  of  the  peach- 

trees, 
And  the  little  winds  that  speak  when  the  dawn  is 

unfurled 
And  the  rose-colour  in  the  grey  oak-leaf's  fold 

When  it  first  comes,  and  the  glamour  that  rests 
On  the  little  streams  in  the  evening;  all  of  these 
Call  me  to  her,  and  all  the  loveliness  in  the  world 
Binds  me  to  my  beloved  with  strong  chains  of  gold. 

vm 

If  the  rose-petals  which  have  fallen  upon  my  eyes 
And  if  the  perfect  faces  which  I  see  at  times 
54 


When  my  eyes  are  closed  —  Laudantei 

Faces  fragile,  pale,  yet  flushed  a  little,  like  petals  of 

roses : 

If  these  things  have  confused  my  memories  of  her 
So  that  I  could  not  draw  her  face 
Even  if  I  had  skill  and  the  colours, 
Yet  because  her  face  is  so  like  these  things 
They  but  draw  me  nearer  unto  her  in  my  thought 
And  thoughts  of  her  come  upon  my  mind  gently, 
As  dew  upon  the  petals  of  roses. 


DC 

He  speaks  to  the  rain. 

O  pearls  that  hang  on  your  little  silver  chains, 
The  innumerable  voices  that  are  whispering 
Among  you  as  you  are  drawn  aside  by  the  wind, 
Have  brought  to  my  mind  the  soft  and  eager  speech 
Of  one  who  hath  great  loveliness, 

Which  is  subtle  as  the  beauty  of  the  rains 
That  hang  low  in  the  moonshine  and  bring 
The  May  softly  among  us,  and  unbind 
The  streams  and  the  crimson  and  white  flowers  and 

reach 
Deep  down  into  the  secret  places. 


x 

The  glamour  of  the  soul  hath  come  upon  me, 
And  as  the  twilight  comes  upon  the  roses, 
55 


Laudantes  Walking  silently  among  them, 

So  have  the  thoughts  of  my  heart 
Gone  out  slowly  in  the  twilight 
Toward  my  beloved, 
Toward  the  crimson  rose,  the  fairest. 


PLANH 

It  is  of  the  white  thoughts  that  he  saw  in  the  Forest. 

WHITE  Poppy,  heavy  with  dreams, 
O  White  Poppy,  who  art  wiser  than  love, 
Though  I  am  hungry  for  their  lips 
When  I  see  them  a-hiding 
And  a-passing  out  and  in  through  the  shadows 

—  There  in  the  pine  wood  it  is, 
And  they  are  white,  White  Poppy, 

They  are  white  like  the  clouds  in  the  forest  of  the 

sky 
Ere  the  stars  arise  to  their  hunting. 

0  White  Poppy,  who  art  wiser  than  love, 

1  am  come  for  peace,  yea  from  the  hunting 
Am  I  come  to  thee  for  peace. 

Out  of  a  new  sorrow  it  is, 

That  my  hunting  hath  brought  me. 

White  Poppy,  heavy  with  dreams, 
Though  I  am  hungry  for  their  lips 
When  I  see  them  a-hiding 
And  a-passing  out  and  in  through  the  shadows 

—  And  it  is  white  they  are  — 

56 


But  if  one  should  look  at  me  with  the  old  hunger  in  Plank 

her  eyes, 
How  will  I  be  answering  her  eyes? 

For  I  have  followed  the  white  folk  of  the  forest. 

Aye !  It 's  a  long  hunting 

And  it 's  a  deep  hunger  I  have  when  I  see  them 

a-gliding 
And  a-flickering  there,  where  the  trees  stand  apart. 

But  oh,  it  is  sorrow  and  sorrow 
When  love  dies-down  in  the  heart. 


57 


CANZONIERE 

STUDIES  IN  FORM 
i 


"  Ma  qui  la  morta  poesi  risurga." 


TO  OLIVIA  AND  DOROTHY  SHAKESPEAR 


OCTAVE 

FINE  songs,  fair  songs,  these  golden  usuries 
Her  beauty  earns  as  but  just  increment, 
And  they  do  speak  with  a  most  ill  intent 
Who  say  they  give  when  they  pay  debtor's  fees. 

I  call  him  bankrupt  in  the  courts  of  song 
Who  hath  her  gold  to  eye  and  pays  her  not, 
Defaulter  do  I  call  the  knave  who  hath  got 
Her  silver  in  his  heart  and  doth  her  wrong. 


SONNET  IN  TENZONE 

LA  MENTE 

THOU  mocked  heart  that  cowerest  by  the  door 
And  durst  not  honour  hope  with  welcoming, 
How  shall  one  bid  thee  for  her  honour  sing, 
When  song  would  but  show  forth  thy  sorrow's 

store? 

What  things  are  gold  and  ivory  unto  thee? 
Go  forth,  thou  pauper  fool !    Are  these  for  naught? 
Is  heaven  in  lotus  leaves  ?   What  hast  thou  wrought, 
Or  brought,  or  sought  wherewith  to  pay  the  fee?" 

IL  CUORE 

"If  naught  I  give,  naught  do  I  take  return. 
*  Ronsard  me  celebroit! '  behold  I  give 
The  age-old,  age-old  fare  to  fairer  fair 
And  I  fare  forth  into  more  bitter  air; 
Though  mocked  I  go,  yet  shall  her  beauty  live 
Till  rimes  unrime  and  Truth  shall  truth  unlearn." 
63 


: 


SONNET 


IF  on  the  tally-board  of  wasted  days 
They  daily  write  me  for  proud  idleness, 
Let  high  Hell  summons  me,  and  I  confess, 
No  overt  act  the  preferred  charge  allays. 

To-day  I  thought  —  what  boots  it  what  I  thought? 
Poppies  and  gold !    Why  should  I  blurt  it  out? 
Or  hawk  the  magic  of  her  name  about 
Deaf  doors  and  dungeons  where  no  truth  is  brought  ? 

Who  calls  me  idle?    I  have  thought  of  her. 
Who  calls  me  idle?    By  God's  truth  I  've  seen 
The  arrowy  sunlight  in  her  golden  snares. 

Let  him  among  you  all  stand  summonser 

Who  hath  done  better  things !   Let  whoso  hath  been 

With  worthier  works  concerned,  display  his  wares ! 


CANZON:  THE  YEARLY  SLAIN 

(Written  in  reply  to  Manning's  "Kor^k")        .^9    ^-<-j      ^-*? 
"  Et  huiusmodi  stantiae  usus  est  fere  in  omnibus  cantionibus  suis 
A  rnaldus  Danielis  et  nos  eum.  secut,  sumus. 
DANTE,  De  Vulgari  Eloquio,  II.  10.) 


AH!  red -leafed  time  hath  driven  out  the  rose 
And  crimson  dew  is  fallen  on  the  leaf 
Ere  ever  yet  the  cold  white  wheat  be  sown 
That  hideth  all  earth's  green  and  sere  and  red ; 
64 


The  Moon-flower 's  fallen  and  the  branch  is  bare,  Canzon: 
Holding  no  honey  for  the  starry  bees;  Fear/y 

The  Maiden  turns  to  her  dark  lord's  demesne.        slain 


Fairer  than  Enna's  field  when  Ceres  sows 
The  stars  of  hyacinth  and  puts  off  grief, 
Fairer  than  petals  on  May  morning  blown 
Through  apple-orchards  where  the  sun  hath  shed 
His  brighter  petals  down  to  make  them  fair; 
Fairer  than  these  the  Poppy-crowned  One  flees, 
And  Joy  goes  weeping  in  her  scarlet  train. 


m 

The  faint  damp  wind  that,  ere  the  even,  blows 
Piling  the  west  with  many  a  tawny  sheaf, 
Then  when  the  last  glad  wavering  hours  are  mown 
Sigheth  and  dies  because  the  day  is  sped; 
This  wind  is  like  her  and  the  listless  air 
Wherewith  she  goeth  by  beneath  the  trees, 
The  trees  that  mock  her  with  their  scarlet  stain. 


IV 

Love  that  is  born  of  Time  and  comes  and  goes ! 
Love  that  doth  hold  all  noble  hearts  in  fief! 
As  red  leaves  follow  where  the  wind  hath  flown, 
So  all  men  follow  Love  when  Love  is  dead. 
O  Fate  of  Wind !     O  Wind  that  cannot  spare, 
But  drivest  out  the  Maid,  and  pourest  lees 
Of  all  thy  crimson  on  the  wold  again, 
65 


Kore  my  heart  is,  let  it  stand  sans  gloze ! 
Love's  pain  is  long,  and  lo,  love's  joy  is  brief ! 
My  heart  erst  alway  sweet  is  bitter  grown; 
As  crimson  ruleth  in  the  good  green's  stead, 
So  grief  hath  taken  all  mine  old  joy's  share 
And  driven  forth  my  solace  and  all  ease 
Where  pleasure  bows  to  all -usurping  pain. 

VI 

Crimson  the  hearth  where  one  last  ember  glows ! 

My  heart's  new  winter  hath  no  such  relief, 

Nor  thought  of  Spring  whose  blossom  he  hath 

known 

Hath  turned  him  back  where  Spring  is  banished. 
Barren  the  heart  and  dead  the  fires  there, 
Blow!  O  ye  ashes,  where  the  winds  shall  please, 
But  cry,  "Love  also  is  the  Yearly  Slain." 

vn 

Be  sped,  my  Canzon,  through  the  bitter  air ! 
To  him  who  speaketh  words  as  fair  as  these, 
Say  that  I  also  know  the  "Yearly  Slain." 


KORE 

From  the  "  Poems  of  Frederic  Manning,'*  published  by  John 
Murray,  with  whose  permission  we  here  reprint  it. 

Yea,  she  hath  passed  hereby  and  blessed  the  sheaves 
And  the  great  garths  and  stacks  and  quiet  farms, 
And  all  the  tawny  and  the  crimson  leaves, 
Yea,  she  hath  passed  with  poppies  in  her  arms 
Under  the  star  of  dusk  through  stealing  mist  _ 
And  blest  the  earth  and  gone  while  no  man  wist. 
66 


With  slow  reluctant  feet  and  weary  eyes  Kore 

And  eyelids  heavy  with  the  coming  sleep, 

With  small  breasts  lifted  up  in  stress  of  sighs, 

She  passed  as  shadows  pass  amid  the  sheep 

While  the  earth  dreamed  and  only  I  was  ware 

Of  that  faint  fragrance  blown  from  her  soft  hair. 

The  land  lay  steeped  in  peace  of  silent  dreams, 
There  was  no  sound  amid  the  sacred  boughs 
Nor  any  mournful  music  in  her  streams, 
Only  I  saw  the  shadow  on  her  brows, 
Only  I  knew  her  for  the  Yearly  Slain 
And  wept,  and  weep  until  she  come  again. 


CANZON:  THE  SPEAR 

[This  fashion  of  stanza  is  used  by  Jaufre  Rudel  in  the  song  "D'un 
amor  de  lonh."    The  measure  is  to  be  sung  rather  than  spoken.] 


IS  the  clear  light  of  love  I  praise 

That  steadfast  gloweth  o'er  deep  waters, 

A  clarity  that  gleams  always. 

Though  man's  soul  pass  through  troubled  waters, 

Strange  ways  tp  him  are  opened. 

To  shore  the  beaten  ship  is  sped 

If  only  love  of  light  give  aid. 


ii 

That  fair  far  spear  of  light  now  lays 
Its  long  gold  shaft  upon  the  waters. 
Ah !  might  I  pass  upon  its  rays 
To  where  it  gleams  beyond  the  waters, 
67 


Canzon:    Or  might  my  troubled  heart  be  fed 

Spear        UpOn  the  frail  clear  light  there  shed> 
Then  were  my  pain  at  last  allay'd. 


ni 

Although  the  clouded  storm  dismays 
Many  a  heart  upon  these  waters, 
The  thought  of  that  far  golden  blaze 
Giveth  me  heart  upon  the  waters, 
Thinking  thereof  my  bark  is  led 
To  port  wherein  no  storm  I  dread; 
No  tempest  maketh  me  afraid. 

IV 

Yet  when  within  my  heart  I  gaze 

Upon  my  fair  beyond  the  waters, 

Meseems  my  soul  within  me  prays 

To  pass  straightway  beyond  the  waters. 

Though  I  be  alway  banished 

From  ways  and  woods  that  she  doth  tread, 

One  thing  there  is  that  doth  not  fade, 


Deep  in  my  heart  that  spear-print  stays, 
That  wound  I  gat  beyond  the  waters, 
Deeper  with  passage  of  the  days 
That  pass  as  swift  and  bitter  waters, 
While  a  dull  fire  within  my  head 
Moveth  itself  if  word  be  said 
Which  hath  concern  with  that  far  maid. 
68 


VI  Canzon: 

My  love  is  lovelier  than  the  sprays  spear 

Of  eglantine  above  clear  waters, 

Or  whitest  lilies  that  upraise 

Their  heads  in  midst  of  moated  waters. 

No  poppy  in  the  May-glad  mead 

Would  match  her  quivering  lips'  red 

If  'gainst  her  lips  it  should  be  laid. 

VII 

The  light  within  her  eyes,  which  slays 
Base  thoughts  and  stilleth  troubled  waters, 
Is  like  the  gold  where  sunlight  plays 
Upon  the  still  overshadowed  waters. 
When  anger  is  there  mingled 
There  comes  a  keener  gleam  instead, 
Like  flame  that  burns  beneath  thin  jade. 

vni 

Know  by  the  words  here  mingled 

What  love  hath  made  my  heart  his  stead, 

Glowing  like  flame  beneath  thin  jade. 


CANZON 

TO  BE  SUNG  BENEATH  A  WINDOW 
I 

HEART  mine,  art  mine,  whose  embraces 
Clasp  but  wind  that  past  thee  bloweth? 
E'en  this  air  so  subtly  gloweth, 
Guerdoned  by  thy  sun-gold  traces 


Canzon     That  my  heart  is  half  afraid 
For  the  fragrance  on  him  laid; 
Even  so  love's  might  amazes ! 


Man's  love  follows  many  faces, 

My  love  only  one  face  knoweth; 

Towards  thee  only  my  love  floweth, 

And  outstrips  the  swift  stream's  paces. 

Were  this  love  well  here  displayed, 

As  flame  flameth  'neath  thin  jade 

Love  should  glow  through  these  my  phrases. 

HI 

Though  I  Ve  roamed  through  many  places, 
None  there  is  that  my  heart  troweth 
Fair  as  that  wherein  fair  groweth 
One  whose  land  here  interlaces 
Tuneful  words,  that  I  Ve  essayed. 
Let  this  tune  be  gently  played 
Which  my  voice  herward  upraises. 

IV 

If  my  praise  her  grace  effaces, 
Then  't  is  not  my  heart  that  showeth, 
But  the  skilless  tongue  that  soweth 
Words  unworthy  of  her  graces. 
Tongue,  that  hath  me  so  betrayed, 
Were  my  heart  but  here  displayed, 
Then  were  sung  her  fitting  praises. 

NOTE.  The  form  and  measure  are  those  of  Piere  Vidal's  "  Ab 
Valen  tir  vas  me  Vaire"  The  song  is  fit  only  to  be  sung,  and 
is  not  to  be  spoken. 

70 


CANZON:   OF  INCENSE 

[To  this  form  sings  Arnault  Daniel,  with  seven  stanzas  instead  of  five.] 


THY  gracious  ways, 
O  Lady  of  my  heart,  have 
O'er  all  my  thought  their  golden  glamour  cast; 
As  amber  torch-flames,  where  strange  men-at-arms 
Tread  softly  'neath  the  damask  shield  of  night, 
Rise  from  the  flowing  steel  in  part  reflected, 
So  on  my  mailed  thought  that  with  thee  goeth, 
Though  dark  the  way,  a  golden  glamour  falleth. 

H 

The  censer  sways 

And  glowing  coals  some  art  have 
To  free  what  frankincense  before  held  fast 
Till  all  the  summer  of  the  eastern  farms 
Doth  dim  the  sense,  and  dream  up  through  the  light, 
As  memory,  by  new-born  love  corrected  — 
With  savour  such  as  only  new  love  knoweth  — 
Through  swift  dim  ways  the  hidden  pasts  recalleth. 


ra 

On  barren  days, 

At  hours  when  I,  apart,  have 
Bent  low  in  thought  of  the  great  charm  thou  hast, 
Behold  with  music's  many  stringed  charms 
The  silence  groweth  thou.     O  rare  delight ! 
The  melody  upon  clear  strings  inflected 
Were  dull  when  o'er  taut  sense  thy  presence  floweth, 
With  quivering  notes'  accord  that  never  palleth. 


Canzon:  IV 

Of  In-       r™        .      . 

cense        The  glowing  rays 

That  from  the  low  sun  dart,  have 
Turned  gold  each  tower  and  every  towering  mast; 
The  saffron  flame,  that  flaming  nothing  harms 
Hides  Khadeeth's  pearl  and  all  the  sapphire  might 
Of  burnished  waves,  before  her  gates  collected: 
The  cloak  of  graciousness,  that  round  thee  gloweth, 
Doth  hide  the  thing  thou  art,  as  here  befalleth. 

v 
All  things  worth  praise 

That  unto  Khadeeth's  mart  have 
From  far  been  brought  through  perils  over-passed, 
All  santal,  myrrh,  and  spikenard  that  disarms 
The  pard's  swift  anger;  these  would  weigh  but  light 
'Gainst    thy    delights,    my    Khadeeth!      Whence 

protected 

By  naught  save  her  great  grace  that  in  him  showeth, 
My  song  goes  forth  and  on  her  mercy  calleth. 

VI 

O  censer  of  the  thought  that  golden  gloweth, 
Be  bright  before  her  when  the  evening  falleth. 

vn 

Fragrant  be  thou  as  a  new  field  one  moweth, 
O  song  of  mine  that  "Hers"  her  mercy  calleth. 


72 


CANZONE:   OF  ANGELS 


HE  that  is  Lord  of  all  the  realms  of  light 
Hath  unto  me  from  His  magnificence 
Granted  such  vision  as  hath  wrought  my  joy. 
Moving  my  spirit  past  the  last  defence 
That  shieldeth  mortal  things  from  mightier  sight, 
Where  freedom  of  the  soul  knows  no  alloy, 
I  saw  what  forms  the  lordly  powers  employ; 
Three  splendours,  saw  I,  of  high  holiness, 
From  clarity  to  clarity  ascending 
Through  all  the  roofless,  tacit  courts  extending 
In  aether  which  such  subtle  light  doth  bless 
As  ne'er  the  candles  of  the  stars  hath  wooed; 
Know  ye  herefrom  of  their  similitude. 


II 

Withdrawn  within  the  cavern  of  his  wings, 
Grave  with  the  joy  of  thoughts  beneficent, 
And  finely  wrought  and  durable  and  clear 
If  so  his  eyes  showed  forth  the  mind's  content, 
So  sate  the  first  to  whom  remembrance  clings, 
Tissued  like  bat's  wings  did  his  wings  appear, 
Not  of  that  shadowy  colouring  and  drear, 
But  as  thin  shells,  pale  saffron,  luminous; 
Alone,  unlonely,  whose  calm  glances  shed 
Friend's  love  to  strangers  though  no  word  were 

said, 

Pensive  his  godly  state  he  keepeth  thus. 
Not  with  his  surfaces  his  power  endeth, 
But  is  as  flame  that  from  the  gem  extendeth. 
73 


Canzone:  HI 

Of  Angels 

My  second  marvel  stood  not  in  such  ease, 
But  he,  the  cloudy  pinioned,  winged  him  on 
Then  from  my  sight  as  now  from  memory, 
The  courier  aquiline,  so  swiftly  gone ! 
The  third  most  glorious  of  these  majesties 
Give  aid,  O  sapphires  of  th'  eternal  see, 
And  by  your  light  illume  pure  verity. 
That  azure  feldspar  hight  the  microcline, 
Or,  on  its  wing,  the  Menelaus  weareth 
Such  subtlety  of  shimmering  as  beareth 
This  marvel  onward  through  the  crystalline, 
A  splendid  calyx  that  about  her  gloweth, 
Smiting  the  sunlight  on  whose  ray  she  goeth. 


IV 

The  diver  at  Sorrento  from  beneath 

The  vitreous  indigo,  who  swiftly  riseth, 

By  will  and  not  by  action  as  it  seemeth, 

Moves  not  more  smoothly,   and  no  thought  sur- 

miseth 

How  she  takes  motion  from  the  lustrous  sheath 
Which,  as  the  trace  behind  the  swimmer,  gleameth 
Yet  presseth  back  the  aether  where  it  streameth. 
To  her  whom  it  adorns  this  sheath  imparteth 
The  living  motion  from  the  light  surrounding; 
And  thus  my  nobler  parts,  to  grief's  confounding, 
Impart  into  my  heart  a  peace  which  starteth 
From  one  round  whom  a  graciousness  is  cast 
Which  clingeth  in  the  air  where  she  hath  past. 
74 


V.  —  TORNATA  Canzone: 

Of  Angels 

Canzon,  to  her  whose  spirit  seems  in  sooth 
Akin  unto  the  feldspar,  since  it  is 
So  clear  and  subtle  and  azure,  I  send  thee,  saying: 
That  since  I  looked  upon  such  potencies 
And  glories  as  are  here  inscribed  in  truth, 
New  boldness  hath  o'erthrown  my  long  delaying, 
And  that  thy  words  my  new-born  powers  obeying  — 
Voices  at  last  to  voice  my  heart's  long  mood  — 
Are  come  to  greet  her  in  their  amplitude. 

NOTE.    This  form   is    not   Provengal,    but    that    of    Dante's 
matchless  "  Voi  che  intendendo    z/   terzo    ciel    movete."      IL 


Italian. 


SONNET:    CHI  E  QUESTA? 

WHO  is  she  coming,  that  the  roses  bend 
Their  shameless  heads  to  do  her  passing 

honour  ? 

Who  is  she  coming  with  a  light  upon  her 
Not  born  of  suns  that  with  the  day's  end  end  ? 
Say,  is  it  Love  who  hath  chosen  the  nobler  part? 
Say,  is  it  Love,  that  was  divinity, 
Who  hath  left  his  godhead  that  his  home  might  be 
The  shameless  rose  of  her  unclouded  heart? 

If  this  be  Love,  where  hath  he  won  such  grace? 
If  this  be  Love,  how  is  the  evil  wrought, 
That  all  men  write  against  his  darkened  name? 
75 


Sonnet:      If  this  be  Love,  if  this 

O  mind  give  place ! 

What  holy  mystery  e'er  was  noosed  in  thought? 
Own  that  thou  scan'st  her  not,  nor  count  it  shame ! 


F 


OF  GRACE 

(BALLATA,  FRAGMENT) 
ii 

PULL  well  thou  knowest,  song,  what  grace  I 
mean, 

E'en  as  thou  know'st  the  sunlight  I  have  lost. 
Thou  knowest  the  way  of  it  and  know'st  the  sheen 
About  her  brows  where  the  rays  are  bound  and 

crossed, 
E'en  as  thou  knowest  joy  and  know'st  joy's  bitter 

cost. 

Thou  know'st  her  grace  in  moving, 
Thou  dost  her  skill  in  loving, 
Thou  know'st  what  truth  she  proveth, 
Thou  knowest  the  heart  she  moveth, 
O  song  where  grief  assoneth ! 


CANZON:   THE  VISION 

The  form  is  that  of  Arnault  Daniel's  "Sols suique  sailo  sobra- 
fan  quern  sortz." 


WHEN  first  I  saw  thee  'neath  the  silver  mist, 
Ruling  thy  bark  of  painted  sandal -wood, 
Did  any  know  thee?    By  the  golden  sails 
76 


That  clasped  the  ribbands  of  that  azure  sea, 
Did  any  know  thee  save  my  heart  alone? 
O  ivory  woman  with  thy  bands  of  gold, 
Answer  the  song  my  luth  and  I  have  brought  thee ! 


n 

Dream  over  golden  dream  that  secret  cist, 
Thy  heart,  O  heart  of  me,  doth  hold,  and  mood 
On  mood  of  silver,  when  the  day's  light  fails, 
Say  who  hath  touched  the  secret  heart  of  thee, 
Or  who  hath  known  what  my  heart  hath  not 

known ! 

O  slender  pilot  whom  the  mists  enfold, 
Answer  the  song  my  luth  and  I  have  wrought  thee ! 


m 

When  new  love  plucks  the  falcon  from  his  wrist, 
And  cuts  the  gyve  and  casts  the  scarlet  hood, 
Where  is  the  heron  heart  whom  flight  avails? 
O  quick  to  prize  me  Love,  how  suddenly 
From  out  the  tumult  truth  hath  ta'en  his  own, 
And  in  this  vision  is  our  past  unrolled. 
Lo !    With  a  hawk  of  light  thy  love  hath  caught 
me. 


IV 

And  I  shall  get  no  peace  from  eucharist, 
Nor  doling  out  strange  prayers  before  the  rood, 
To  match  the  peace  that  thine  hands'  touch  entails; 
77 


Canzon :    Nor  doth  God's  light  match  light  shed  over  me 
The  rltfflftwjgga  thy  caught  sunlight  is  about  me  thrown, 
Oh,  for  the  very  ruth  thine  eyes  have  told, 
Answer  the  rune  this  love  of  thee  hath  taught  me. 


After  an  age  of  longing  had  we  missed 

Our  meeting  and  the  dream,  what  were  the  good 

Of  weaving  cloth  of  words?    Were  jeweled  tales 

An  opiate  meet  to  quell  the  malady 

Of  life  unlived?    In  untried  monotone 

Were  not  the  earth  as  vain,  and  dry,  and  old, 

For  thee,  O  Perfect  Light,  had  I  not  sought  thee? 


VI 

Calais,  in  song  where  word  and  tone  keep  tryst 
Behold  my  heart,  and  hear  mine  hardihood ! 
Calais,  the  wind  is  come  and  heaven  pales 
And  trembles  for  the  love  of  day  to  be. 
Calais,  the  words  break  and  the  dawn  is  shown. 
Ah,  but  the  stars  set  when  thou  wast  first  bold, 
Turn!   lest  they  say  a  lesser   light   distraught 
thee. 


VTI 

O  ivory  thou,  the  golden  scythe  hath  mown 
Night's  stubble  and  my  joy.    Ah,  royal  souled, 
Favour  the  quest !    Lo,  Truth  and  I  have  sought 
thee ! 

78 


TO  OUR  LADY  OF  VICARIOUS  ATONEMENT 

(BALLATA) 

i 

WHO  are  you  that  the  whole  world's  song 
Is  shaken  out  beneath  your  feet 
Leaving  you  comfortless, 
Who,  that,  as  wheat 
Is  garnered,  gather  in 
The  blades  of  man's  sin 
And  bear  that  sheaf? 
Lady  of  wrong  and  grief, 
Blameless ! 


All  souls  beneath  the  gloom 
That  pass  with  little  flames, 
All  these  till  time  be  run 
Pass  one  by  one 
As  Christs  to  save,  and  die ; 
What  wrong  one  sowed, 
Behold,  another  reaps! 
Where  lips  awake  our  joy 
The  sad  heart  sleeps 
Within. 


No  man  doth  bear  his  sin, 

But  many  sins 

Are  gathered  as  a  cloud  about  man's  way. 


79 


EPILOGUE 

TO  GUIDO  CAVALCANTI 

DANTE  and  I  are  come  to  learn  of  thee, 
O  Messire  Guido,  master  of  us  all, 
Love,  who  hath  set  his  hand  upon  us  three, 
Bidding  us  twain  upon  thy  glory  call. 
Harsh  light  hath  rent  from  us  the  golden  pall 
Of  that  frail  sleep,  His  first  light  seigniory, 
And  we  are  come  through  all  the  modes  that  fall 
Unto  their  lot  who  meet  him  constantly. 
Wherefore,  by  right,  in  this  lord's  name  we  greet 

thee, 

Seeing  we  labour  at  his  labour  daily. 
Thou,  who  dost  know  what  way  swift  words  are 

crossed 
O  thou,  who  hast  sung  +;U  none  at  song  defeat 

thee, 

Grant !  by  thy  might  and  hers  of  San  Michele, 
Thy  risen  voice  send  flames  this  pentecost. 

NOTE.     This  poem  foreruns  a  translation  of  "  The  Sonnets  and 
Ballate  of  Guido  "  now  in  preparation—  E.  p. 


80 


NOTES 


NOTES 

NOTE  PRECEDENT  TO  "LA  FRAISNE" 

"  When  the  soul  is  exhausted  of  fire,  then  doth  the  spirit  return 
unto  its  primal  nature  and  there  is  upon  it  a  peace  great  and  of  the 
woodland 

"  magna  pax  et  silvestrts." 

Then  becometh  it  kin  to  the  faun  and  the  dryad,  a  woodland- 
dweller  amid  the  rocks  and  streams 

"  consociis  f aunts  dryadisque  inter  saxa  sylvarum" 

Janus  of  Basel.1 

Also  has  Mr.  Yeats  in  his  "Celtic  Twilight"  treated  of  such, 
and  I  because  in  such  a  mood,  feeling  myself  divided  between  my- 
self corporal  and  a  self  aetherial  "  a  dweller  by  streams  and  in 
woodland,"  eternal  because  simple  in  elements 
"Aetemus  quia  simplex  naturae." 

Being  freed  of  the  weight  of  a  soul  "  capable  of  salvation  or 
damnation,"  a  grievous  striving  thing  that  after  much  straining 
was  mercifully  taken  from  me ;  as  had  one  passed  saying  as  one  in 
the  Book  of  the  Dead, 

"  I,  lo  I,  am  the  assembler  of  souls,"  and  had  taken  it  with  him, 
leaving  me  thus  simplex  naturae,  even  so  at  peace  and  trans- 
sentient  as  a  wood  pool  I  made  it. 

The  Legend  thus :  "  Miraut  de  Garzelas,  after  the  pains  he  bore 
a-loving  Riels  of  Calidorn  and  that  to  none  avail,  ran  mad  in  the 
forest. 

"  Yea  even  as  Peire  Vidal  ran  as  a  wolf  for  her  of  Penautier 
though  some  say  that  twas  folly  or  as  Garulf  Bisclavret  so  ran 
truly,  till  the  King  brought  him  respite  (See  'Lais'  Marie  de 
France),  so  was  he  ever  by  the  Ash  Tree." 

Hear  ye  his  speaking:  (low,  slowly  he  speaketh  it,  as  one  drawn 
apart,  reflecting)  (egare"). 

1  Referendum  for  contrast.  "  Daemonalitas  "  of  the  Rev.  Father 
Sinistrari  of  Ameno  ( 1600  circ.).  "  A  treatise  wherein  is  shown  that 
there  are  in  existence  on  earth  rational  creatures  besides  man, 
endowed  like  him  with  a  body  and  soul,  that  are  born  and  die  like 
him,  redeemed  by  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  capable  of  receiving 
salvation  or  damnation."  Latin  and  English  text,  pub.  Liseux, 
Paris,  1879. 

83 


MARVOIL  Notes 

The  Personae  arc : 

Arnaut  of  Marvoil,  a  troubadour,  date  1170-1200. 

The  Countess  (in  her  own  right)  of  Burlatz,  and  of  Beziers,  be- 
ing the  wife  of 

The  Vicomte  of  Beziers. 

Alfonso  IV  of  Aragon. 

Tibors  of  Mont-Ausier.  For  fuller  mention  of  her  see  the 
"razos"  on  Bertran  of  Born.  She  is  contemporary  with  the 
other  persons,  but  I  have  no  strict  warrant  for  dragging  her  name 
into  this  particular  affair. 


\ 


_)>•'} 


«.>6 


